The Wit and Humor of America, Volume II. (of X.) Read online

  Shall we, truly? Shall we really see the "best society of the city," thepicked flower of its genius, character and beauty? What makes the "bestsociety" of men and women? The noblest specimens of each, of course. Themen who mould the time, who refresh our faith in heroism and virtue, whomake Plato, and Zeno, and Shakespeare, and all Shakespeare's gentlemen,possible again. The women, whose beauty, and sweetness, and dignity, andhigh accomplishment, and grace, make us understand the Greek mythology,and weaken our desire to have some glimpse of the most famous women ofhistory. The "best society" is that in which the virtues are mostshining, which is the most charitable, forgiving, long-suffering,modest, and innocent. The "best society" is, by its very name, that inwhich there is the least hypocrisy and insincerity of all kinds, whichrecoils from, and blasts, artificiality, which is anxious to be all thatit is possible to be, and which sternly reprobates all shallow pretense,all coxcombry and foppery, and insists upon simplicity as theinfallible characteristic of true worth. That is the "best society,"which comprises the best men and women.

  Had we recently arrived from the moon, we might, upon hearing that wewere to meet the "best society," have fancied that we were about toenjoy an opportunity not to be overvalued. But unfortunately we were notso freshly arrived. We had received other cards, and had perfected ourtoilette many times, to meet this same society, so magnificentlydescribed, and had found it the least "best" of all. Who compose it?Whom shall we meet if we go to this ball? We shall meet three classes ofpersons: first, those who are rich, and who have all that money can buy;second, those who belong to what are technically called "the good oldfamilies," because some ancestor was a man of mark in the state orcountry, or was very rich, and has kept the fortune in the family; and,thirdly, a swarm of youths who can dance dexterously, and who areinvited for that purpose. Now these are all arbitrary and factitiousdistinctions upon which to found so profound a social difference as thatwhich exists in American, or, at least in New York, society. First, as ageneral rule, the rich men of every community, who make their own money,are not the most generally intelligent and cultivated. They have ashrewd talent which secures a fortune, and which keeps them closely atthe work of amassing from their youngest years until they are old. Theyare sturdy men, of simple tastes often. Sometimes, though rarely, verygenerous, but necessarily with an altogether false and exaggerated ideaof the importance of money. They are a rather rough, unsympathetic, and,perhaps, selfish class, who, themselves, despise purple and fine linen,and still prefer a cot-bed and a bare room, although they may be worthmillions. But they are married to scheming, or ambitious, ordisappointed women, whose life is a prolonged pageant, and they aredragged hither and thither in it, are bled of their golden blood, andforced into a position they do not covet and which they despise. Thenthere are the inheritors of wealth. How many of them inherit the valiantgenius and hard frugality which built up their fortunes; how manyacknowledge the stern and heavy responsibility of their opportunitieshow many refuse to dream their lives away in a Sybarite luxury; how manyare smitten with the lofty ambition of achieving an enduring name byworks of a permanent value; how many do not dwindle into daintydilettanti, and dilute their manhood with factitious sentimentalityinstead of a hearty, human sympathy; how many are not satisfied withhaving the fastest horses and the "crackest" carriages, and an unlimitedwardrobe, and a weak affectation and puerile imitation of foreign life?

  And who are these of our secondly, these "old families?" The spirit ofour time and of our country knows no such thing, but the habitue of"society" hears constantly of "a good family." It means simply, thecollective mass of children, grand-children, nephews, nieces, anddescendants, of some man who deserved well of his country, and whom hiscountry honors. But sad is the heritage of a great name! The son ofBurke will inevitably be measured by Burke. The niece of Pope must showsome superiority to other women (so to speak), or her equality isinferiority. The feeling of men attributes some magical charm to blood,and we look to see the daughter of Helen as fair as her mother, and theson of Shakespeare musical as his sire. If they are not so, if they aremerely names, and common persons--if there is no Burke, nor Shakespeare,nor Washington, nor Bacon, in their words, or actions, or lives, then wemust pity them, and pass gently on, not upbraiding them, but regrettingthat it is one of the laws of greatness that it dwindles all things inits vicinity, which would otherwise show large enough. Nay, in ourregard for the great man, we may even admit to a compassionate honor, aspensioners upon our charity, those who bear and transmit his name. Butif these heirs should presume upon that fame, and claim any precedenceof living men and women because their dead grandfather was a hero--theymust be shown the door directly. We should dread to be born a Percy, ora Colonna, or a Bonaparte. We should not like to be the second Duke ofWellington, nor Charles Dickens, Jr. It is a terrible thing, one wouldsay, to a mind of honorable feeling, to be pointed out as somebody'sson, or uncle, or granddaughter, as if the excellence were all derived.It must be a little humiliating to reflect that if your great-uncle hadnot been somebody, you would be nobody--that, in fact, you are only aname, and that, if you should consent to change it for the sake of afortune, as is sometimes done, you would cease to be anything but a richman. "My father was President, or Governor of the State," some pompousman may say. But, by Jupiter! king of gods and men, what are _you_? isthe instinctive response. Do you not see, our pompous friend, that youare only pointing your own unimportance? If your father was Governor ofthe State, what right have you to use that fact only to fatten yourself-conceit? Take care, good care; for whether you say it by your lipsor by your life, that withering response awaits you--"then what are_you_?" If your ancestor was great, you are under bonds to greatness. Ifyou are small, make haste to learn it betimes, and, thanking heaven thatyour name has been made illustrious, retire into a corner and keep it,at least, untarnished.

  Our thirdly, is a class made by sundry French tailors, bootmakers,dancing-masters, and Mr. Brown. They are a corps-de-ballet, for use ofprivate entertainments. They are fostered by society for the use ofyoung debutantes, and hardier damsels, who have dared two or three yearsof the "tight" polka. They are cultivated for their heels, not theirheads. Their life begins at ten o'clock in the evening, and lasts untilfour in the morning. They go home and sleep until nine; then they reel,sleepy, to counting-houses and offices, and doze on desks untildinnertime. Or, unable to do that, they are actively at work all day,and their cheeks grow pale, and their lips thin, and their eyesbloodshot and hollow, and they drag themselves home at evening to catcha nap until the ball begins, or to dine and smoke at their club, and thevery manly with punches and coarse stories; and then to rush into hotand glittering rooms, and seize very _decollete_ girls closely aroundthe waist, and dash with them around an area of stretched linen, sayingin the panting pauses, "How very hot it is!" "How very pretty Miss Podgelooks!" "What a good redowa!" "Are you going to Mrs. Potiphar's?"

  Is this the assembled flower of manhood and womanhood, called "bestsociety," and to see which is so envied a privilege? If such are theelements, can we be long in arriving at the present state, and necessaryfuture condition of parties?

  _Vanity Fair_ is peculiarly a picture of modern society. It aims atEnglish follies, but its mark is universal, as the madness is. It iscalled a satire, but, after much diligent reading, we can not discoverthe satire. A state of society not at all superior to that of _VanityFair_ is not unknown to our experience; and, unless truth-telling besatire; unless the most tragically real portraiture be satire; unlessscalding tears of sorrow, and the bitter regret of a manly mind over themiserable spectacle of artificiality, wasted powers, misdirectedenergies, and lost opportunities, be satirical; we do not find satire inthat sad story. The reader closes it with a grief beyond tears. Itleaves a vague apprehension in the mind, as if we should suspect the airto be poisoned. It suggests the terrible thought of the enfeebling ofmoral power, and the deterioration of noble character, as a necessaryconsequence of contact with "society." Every man looks suddenly
andsharply around him, and accosts himself and his neighbors, to ascertainif they are all parties to this corruption. Sentimental youths andmaidens, upon velvet sofas, or in calf-bound libraries, resolve that itis an insult to human nature--are sure that their velvet and calf-boundfriends are not like the _dramatis personae_ of _Vanity Fair_, and thatthe drama is therefore hideous and unreal. They should remember, whatthey uniformly and universally forget, that we are not invited, upon therising of the curtain, to behold a cosmorama, or picture of the world,but a representation of that part of it called Vanity Fair. What itsjust limits are--how far its poisonous purlieus reach--how much of theworld's air is tainted by it, is a question which every thoughtful manwill ask himself, with a shudder, and look sadly around, to answer. Ifthe sentimental objectors rally again to the charge, and declare that,if we wish to improve the world, its virtuous ambition must be piquedand stimulated by making the shining heights of "the ideal" moreradiant; we reply, that none shall surpass us in honoring the men whosecreations of beauty inspire and instruct mankind. But if they benefitthe world, it is no less true that a vivid apprehension of the depthsinto which we are sunken or may sink, nerves the soul's courage quite asmuch as the alluring mirage of the happy heights we may attain. "Tohold the mirror up to Nature," is still the most potent method ofshaming sin and strengthening virtue.

  If _Vanity Fair_ be a satire, what novel of society is not? Are _VivianGrey_, and _Pelham_, and the long catalogue of books illustratingEnglish, or the host of Balzacs, Sands, Sues, and Dumas, that paintFrench society, less satires? Nay, if you should catch any dandy inBroadway, or in Pall-Mall, or upon the Boulevards, this very morning,and write a coldly true history of his life and actions, his doings andundoings, would it not be the most scathing and tremendous satire?--ifby satire you mean the consuming melancholy of the conviction that thelife of that pendant to a mustache is an insult to the possible life ofa man.

  We have read of a hypocrisy so thorough, that it was surprised youshould think it hypocritical: and we have bitterly thought of thesaying, when hearing one mother say of another mother's child, that shehad "made a good match," because the girl was betrothed to a stupid boywhose father was rich. The remark was the key of our social feeling.

  Let us look at it a little, and, first of all, let the reader considerthe criticism, and not the critic. We may like very well, in ourindividual capacity, to partake of the delicacies prepared by ourhostess's _chef_, we may not be averse to _pate_ and myriad _objets degout_, and if you caught us in a corner at the next ball, putting away afair share of _dinde aux truffes_, we know you would have at us in atone of great moral indignation, and wish to know why we sneaked intogreat houses, eating good suppers, and drinking choice wines, and thenwent away with an indigestion, to write dyspeptic disgusts at society.

  We might reply that it is necessary to know something of a subjectbefore writing about it, and that if a man wished to describe the habitsof South Sea Islanders, it is useless to go to Greenland; we might alsoconfess a partiality for _pate_, and a tenderness for _truffes_, andacknowledge that, considering our single absence would not put downextravagant, pompous parties, we were not strong enough to let themorsels drop into unappreciating mouths; or we might say, that if a maninvited us to see his new house, it would not be ungracious norinsulting to his hospitality, to point out whatever weak parts we mightdetect in it, nor to declare our candid conviction, that it was builtupon wrong principles and could not stand. He might believe us, if wehad been in the house, but he certainly would not, if we had never seenit. Nor would it be a very wise reply upon his part, that we might builda better if we didn't like that. We are not fond of David's pictures,but we certainly could never paint half so well; nor of Pope's poetry,but posterity will never hear of our verses. Criticism is notconstruction, it is observation. If we could surpass in its own wayeverything which displeased us, we should make short work of it, andinstead of showing what fatal blemishes deform our present society, weshould present a specimen of perfection, directly.

  We went to the brilliant ball. There was too much of everything. Toomuch light, and eating, and drinking, and dancing, and flirting, anddressing, and feigning, and smirking, and much too many people. Goodtaste insists first upon fitness. But why had Mrs. Potiphar given thisball? We inquired industriously, and learned it was because she did notgive one last year. Is it then essential to do this thing biennially?inquired we with some trepidation. "Certainly," was the bland reply, "orsociety will forget you." Everybody was unhappy at Mrs. Potiphar's,save a few girls and boys, who danced violently all the evening. Thosewho did not dance walked up and down the rooms as well as they could,squeezing by non-dancing ladies, causing them to swear in their heartsas the brusque broadcloth carried away the light outworks of gauze andgossamer. The dowagers, ranged in solid phalanx, occupied all the chairsand sofas against the wall, and fanned themselves until supper-time,looking at each other's diamonds, and criticizing the toilettes of theyounger ladies, each narrowly watching her peculiar Polly Jane, that shedid not betray too much interest in any man who was not of a certainfortune.--It is the cold, vulgar truth, madam, nor are we in theslightest degree exaggerating.--Elderly gentlemen, twisting singlegloves in a very wretched manner, came up and bowed to the dowagers, andsmirked, and said it was a pleasant party, and a handsome house, andthen clutched their hands behind them, and walked miserably away,looking as affable as possible. And the dowagers made a little fun ofthe elderly gentlemen, among themselves, as they walked away.

  Then came the younger non-dancing men--a class of the community who wearblack cravats and waistcoats, and thrust their thumbs and forefingers intheir waistcoat-pockets, and are called "talking men." Some of them areliterary, and affect the philosopher; have, perhaps, written a book ortwo, and are a small species of lion to very young ladies. Some are ofthe _blase_ kind; men who affect the extremest elegance, and are reputed"so aristocratic," and who care for nothing in particular, but wish theyhad not been born gentlemen, in which case they might have escapedennui. These gentlemen stand with hat in hand, and their coats andtrousers are unexceptionable. They are the "so gentlemanly" persons ofwhom one hears a great deal, but which seems to mean nothing butcleanliness. Vivian Grey and Pelham are the models of their ambition,and they succeed in being Pendennis. They enjoy the reputation of being"very clever," and "very talented fellows," and "smart chaps"; but theyrefrain from proving what is so generously conceded. They are often menof a certain cultivation. They have traveled, many of them--spending ayear or two in Paris, and a month or two in the rest of Europe.Consequently they endure society at home, with a smile, and a shrug, anda graceful superciliousness, which is very engaging. They are perfectlyat home, and they rather despise Young America, which, in the next room,is diligently earning its invitation. They prefer to hover about theladies who did not come out this season, but are a little used to theworld, with whom they are upon most friendly terms, and they criticizetogether, very freely, all the great events in the great world offashion.

  These elegant Pendennises we saw at Mrs. Potiphar's, but not without asadness which can hardly be explained. They had been boys once, all ofthem, fresh and frank-hearted, and full of a noble ambition. They hadread and pondered the histories of great men; how they resolved, andstruggled, and achieved. In the pure portraiture of genius, they hadloved and honored noble women, and each young heart was sworn to truthand the service of beauty. Those feelings were chivalric and fair. Thoseboyish instincts clung to whatever was lovely, and rejected the specioussnare, however graceful and elegant. They sailed, new knights, upon thatold and endless crusade against hypocrisy and the devil, and they werelost in the luxury of Corinth, nor longer seek the difficult shoresbeyond. A present smile was worth a future laurel. The ease of themoment was worth immortal tranquillity. They renounced the sternworship of the unknown God, and acknowledged the deities of Athens. Butthe seal of their shame is their own smile at their early dreams, andthe high hopes of their boyhood, their sneering infidelity ofsimplic
ity, their skepticism of motives and of men. Youths, whoseyounger years were fervid with the resolution to strike and win, todeserve, at least, a gentle remembrance, if not a dazzling fame, arecontent to eat, and drink, and sleep well; to go to the opera and allthe balls; to be known as "gentlemanly," and "aristocratic," and"dangerous," and "elegant"; to cherish a luxurious and enervatingindolence, and to "succeed," upon the cheap reputation of having been"fast" in Paris. The end of such men is evident enough from thebeginning. They are snuffed out by a "great match," and become anappendage to a rich woman; or they dwindle off into old _roues_, men ofthe world in sad earnest, and not with elegant affectation, _blase_; andas they began Arthur Pendennises, so they end the Major. But, believeit, that old fossil heart is wrung sometimes by a mortal pang, as itremembers those squandered opportunities and that lost life.

  From these groups we passed into the dancing-room. We have seen dancingin other countries, and dressing. We have certainly never seen gentlemendance so easily, gracefully, and well, as the American. But the _style_of dancing, in its whirl, its rush, its fury, is only equaled by that ofthe masked balls at the French opera, and the balls at the _SalleValentino_, the _Jardin Mabille_, the _Chateau Rouge_, and otherfavorite resorts of Parisian grisettes and lorettes. We saw a few youngmen looking upon the dance very soberly, and, upon inquiry, learned thatthey were engaged to certain ladies of the corps-de-ballet. Nor did wewonder that the spectacle of a young woman whirling in a _decollete_state, and in the embrace of a warm youth, around a heated room, induceda little sobriety upon her lover's face, if not a sadness in his heart.Amusement, recreation, enjoyment! There are no more beautiful things.But this proceeding falls under another head. We watched the varioustoilettes of these bounding belles. They were rich and tasteful. But aman at our elbow, of experience and shrewd observation, said, with asneer, for which we called him to account, "I observe that Americanladies are so rich in charms that they are not at all chary of them. Itis certainly generous to us miserable black coats. But, do you know, itstrikes me as a generosity of display that must necessarily leave thedonor poorer in maidenly feeling." We thought ourselves cynical, butthis was intolerable; and in a very crisp manner we demanded an apology.